


and i look out for you

by jynersq



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gen, This Is Fine, Totally Platonic-ish Showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2518433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynersq/pseuds/jynersq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He waits for her to swing the bathroom door closed between them, but she turns back.</p><p>  <em>"You coming?"</em></p><p>(Or, the first of many times Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz wash each other's wounds.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i look out for you

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Laura (camseydavis) for beta-ing!

They’re slumped around the kitchen table in various stages of weariness, an hour into tonight’s debrief. Fitz watches Coulson, on and off, sometimes May, but he stopped actively listening some time ago. Not out of disrespect, but driven to distraction by the downward slope of Jemma’s shoulders, the pale line of her knuckles on the edge of the table.

The mission had gone sideways almost from the very start. By this team’s standards, it had ended ultimately catastrophe-less, casualties minimal and perpetrators apprehended, but it had been particularly physically brutal nonetheless. Every small movement tugs at the places his own face is cut-up and collateral from a bullet-shattered window; each of her small fidgets against the hard plastic chair speak to bruises across her left side from when the Bus had banked, hard.

Some nights, there are too many wounds to be washed, and only the physical ones can be bandaged.

Half-listening, he hears Coulson make some comment and Skye fire back something else in response, gesturing sharply. He doesn’t comprehend a word they’re saying, and looks across to see the dazed look in Jemma’s eyes. 

Under the table, Fitz nudges her knee with his.

—

Thankfully, they’re all eventually released from the tense kitchen, directed to clean themselves up and get a good, solid twelve hours of sleep. Skye stays behind to exchange words with May, and Fitz extends a sore arm to help Jemma up from the table.

In the hall before him, she walks with painful stiffness, the slowness of trying to keep clothes from rubbing against the raw places. She’s so tired that her feet almost stumble over themselves on several occasions, and he almost has to point her in the direction of her own bunk.

When they get there, he punches in the code for her _—3 - 4 - 8 - 9 —_ and switches on the lamp in the dusky dimness, the harsh yellow light illuminating the signature purple under their eyes.

She grabs a towel from a closet shelf, and then stops, just stands, rubbing/swiping tiredly at her eyes. Gently, he prods her in the direction of the shower across the hall. And he waits for her to swing the door closed between them, but, this time, she turns back to look at him. 

"You coming?" she asks.

He hesitates for only a moment. There are plenty of good reasons why it’s a terrible idea, but, God, he’s so tired. Too tired to form a coherent argument where there is none to be made, so, he just. Follows her in, and shuts the door behind him.

—

Helping each other out of their outer protective layers is a feat in and of itself — it’s bruised and a bit awkward, trying keep from prodding all the purple places as they discard sweat-stiff clothes right to the floor. But they manage, and then they’re standing, very sore and a little unsure, in their underwear. He’s pretty sure he should be flushing, but neither of them can work up the energy to be skittish.

She just looks at him and shrugs a little, peeling the straps of her bra clumsily from her shoulders, tossing it to the floor, and those go, too. He pauses a moment, and then his own underclothes join hers on the chilly tile floor.

They’ve been closer to fully exposed than this, before. This skin? Is nothing, and says nothing about what they know each other to be beneath it. 

Even so, he doesn’t quite manage to escape without a brief reactionary flush.

She reaches over to turn the faucet on, to lend the small room some heat and sound, and he has a painfully uninterrupted view of the deep bruise that colors her left shoulder, violet and violent.

It takes a few minutes to get the water just on this side of scalding — he has to laugh a little bit as she lets out a little yelp and jumps comically back, at first, sputtering water.

_“Cold!”_

When the temperature’s right, he shelves his own body’s immediate complaints and begins instead with her, nudging her below the spray, loosening her hair from its tangled ponytail to save her aching shoulder. 

She makes little grateful noises as he works the soap through her hair, faintly scratching across her scalp the way she likes; she leans into his hand, as he works the shampoo through her hair. On a few occasions, he has to steady her, to keep her from leaning too far into him.

“Why haven’t we done this before?” she mumbles, and he laughs, quietly. It’s strange and it’s familiar; he has never seen all of her skin and he has already seen all of her.

She rouses herself enough to wash the soap out of her hair on her own, and he steps back to give her some room.

“Your turn,” she says, a bit formally, when it’s his to step directly under the spray. He reaches for the bar soap, but she’s already there.

“Let me,” she says.

She steps around him, drags the soap across his back and shoulder in wide arcs, careful to clean more carefully his own scrapes and bruise-blooms.

There’s a momentary flash of something in her chest when she picks up on the subtle changes under her hands, the new definition in his lightly freckled shoulders, back, hips. The silver lining to added field work, she supposes. Somehow, without her noticing, he’s transitioned from _skinny_ to _slender,_ from _shy_ to _solid._

He hisses involuntarily when she accidentally reaches a particularly tender spot, and the extent of the plentiful little glass cuts across his shoulders and neck draw her brows together.

"Oh, Fitz,” she sighs, "you need to quit picking fights with glass doors." 

"It was a window, actually," he says, dryly. "So, that’s new.”

She huffs, dabbing softly at the scrapes. “Looks like I’m going to have to make a renewed effort to keep you away from them.”

"Please," he agrees.

The water’s starting to run colder as they use up the hot water, so he makes sure to wash the places she’s too sore to reach. 

He looks first to her for permission, then, curiously, runs a finger over a thin white scar high on her unbruised side.

"What’s this?"

She rolls her eyes at herself, embarrassed.

"Freshman year. Running with scissors, if you can believe that. Happened a couple of weeks before we were paired up."

He snorts, and looks back up to find her already watching him. His hand drops from her side like it burned him.

The corners of her mouth tilt up. She looks him in the face as she leans ever so slightly into him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

He breathes her in until the water runs clear.

—

They climb into the loosest clothes they own, and climb into bed. He assumes he’ll be heading back to his own bunk, now, but she takes him by the wrist and pulls him on top of the covers.

He lays one arm down for her to pillow her head upon, and they curl up around each other, wet hair mingling on the pillowcase.

He’s just about to drift off, when he hears her say, quiet,

"Hey, Fitz?"

"Mm?" he hums in response.

"I’m glad you’re okay."

He curls around her, a little closer. “Yeah. Me too. I mean— About you, though.”

He feels her smile in the dark, and they fall asleep to each other’s soft breaths.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥


End file.
